“The Swimmer,” by John Cheever | The New Yorker
archive.today webpage capture Saved from history←priornext→ 9 May 2025 20:25:10 UTC All snapshots from host www.newyorker.com WebpageScreenshot sharedownload .zipreport bug or abuse Skip to main content Newsletter Sign In Search The Latest News Books & Culture Fiction & Poetry Humor & Cartoons Magazine Puzzles & Games Video Podcasts Goings On Shop 100th Anniversary Fiction The Swimmer By John Cheever July 10, 1964 Photograph by H. Armstrong Roberts / Getty It was one of those midsummer Sundays when everyone sits around saying, “I drank too much last night.” You might have heard it whispered by the parishioners leaving church, heard it from the lips of the priest himself, struggling with his cassock in the vestiarium, heard it on the golf links and the tennis courts, heard it in the wildlife preserve, where the leader of the Audubon group was suffering from a terrible hangover. “I drank too much,” said Donald Westerhazy, at the edge of the Westerhazys’ pool. “We all drank too much,
archive.today webpage capture Saved from history←priornext→ 9 May 2025 20:25:10 UTC All snapshots from host www.newyorker.com WebpageScreenshot sharedownload .zipreport bug or abuse Skip to main content Newsletter Sign In Search The Latest News Books & Culture Fiction & Poetry Humor & Cartoons Magazine Puzzles & Games Video Podcasts Goings On Shop 100th Anniversary Fiction The Swimmer By John Cheever July 10, 1964 Photograph by H. Armstrong Roberts / Getty It was one of those midsummer Sundays when everyone sits around saying, “I drank too much last night.” You might have heard it whisper
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